


Angels

by Maarkriifaas



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No supernatural, Insanity, M/M, Pyromania, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Triggers, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3992110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maarkriifaas/pseuds/Maarkriifaas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was an angel. There was no other way of putting the faint but powerful aura of something that flowed off him like water. In his experience, angels were generally bad news. The tried to catch him, lock him up again, kill him off like the pest he was; long story short, it never worked out in the end. And yet, this one, this one was different, as though he was an angel, yes, but he wasn't any kind of good one. An angel that had fallen from grace gracelessly, an angel that was willing to do anything to fly again.</p><p>And if there was one thing Matt had learned in his godforsaken life, it was that angels like that didn't come around twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **end |end| noun**  
>  _1\. a final part of something, esp. a period of time, an activity, or a story:_ the end of the year

It had been an accident. 

That was what they all said at least, and it was really getting to be an old excuse. 

The arsonist sat in front of Naomi, smoking a cigarette nonchalantly, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to take out cigarettes when your lungs were already as clogged as they came. His hands fiddled behind his head, eyes darting from clean whitewashed wall to the other, as though he had something he’d much rather have been doing than talking about the fire he set.

And there was no mistaking it had been set, from the matches and flints in his pockets, (even though he already had several lighters), to the stench of gasoline that still wafted off of him hours later. Naomi had no idea how he'd lit it and survived, or if he had friends who'd look out for him and try to save him; after all, it would be very convenient for an arsonist to escape interrogation because of a fire. She’d set the recorder on the table a safe distance away, out of his limited reach, but none of her questions had been answered so far.

"I’ll ask you one last time before I take up new, less appealing measures. Why did you light it?" she asked irritably for the fifth or sixth time, his eyes still never quite meeting hers from underneath the tinted glass. He looked away, as if he was tired of answering the same question over and over again, though he hadn’t exactly been cooperative either.

"I told you. I threw a dead cig, it landed in the wrong spot," he repeated, sticking to the same story as before. "The fact of the matter is, that’s the only story you’re gonna get out of me, because it’s the truth." 

"Right. So this is completely unrelated," she said, a hint of sarcasm as she held up one of the two Zippos he'd had in his pockets. The engraving on the side was scratched into the metal as though it had been done with a rock, and was incomprehensible.

And then he gave that awful smile. The one that went too far past his ears but somehow didn’t touch them either, the one that sent shivers through every bone in her body. The type she generally tried to keep as far away from her as possible, but if she was fazed by him, she didn’t let it translate into her voice. 

"Well?"

"I didn’t do anything wrong."

She gave a purposeful, long, sigh, and turned off the tape recorder a moment. "Mr. "just Matt", I like to believe I am a nice person. I like to think I am patient, and I like to pretend I am tolerant, but as of right now, you’ve exhausted my resources. It is," she paused, checking her watch briefly, "four twenty-six AM. I have never tried to murder somebody with a ballpoint pen, but frankly I’m about to and I very well think I can, so long as your left arm remains handcuffed to the armrest of your chair. Please do not push my limits further."

A humourless giggle. "Homocide for arson, am I right?" There the smile was again, poking through the red curtain that was his hair, cheshire-like and largely reminiscent of a crocodile, giving her the tinglies all over again. He blinked, once, twice, and his eyes made another efficient swipe of the room before it broadened further. 

"You want the truth lady?" he asked again, chin resting on a fist like he was sitting on a throne and not in an interrogation chamber. She pulled the notepad closer and prepped the pencil, feeling as though she was finally getting somewhere.

“I got one reason."

She looked up at him expectantly and saw the flicker of insanity almost trickle out again, but he still laughed. 

And then, without any further provocation, he talked.

"Have you ever been bored miss Misora? Have you ever felt like you don’t know what to do, but you have to do something, and then you get this idea, this glorious, big, wonderful idea? Like God himself has bestowed this amazing idea on you, and you simply can’t disobey a God, can you? Oh, you know it’ll be bad, and you know that you’re gonna get caught doing it, but wow, watching those flames burn was warm." Matt paused, taking a deep breath in, and sighed contentedly. "And goddamn miss, you ever seen flames go that high anyways? No, for sure it was God that made me do it; cause he wanted to see those flames too miss." He pulled the goggles off his forehead with a sucking sound and stared her down, a gentler, more chilling smile now, to match his grey-blue eyes.

"You wanna know why I did it? Well, I did it because I was bored, miss Misora." 

Naomi pressed the button to stop the recording, but it was already down. She realized that she hadn’t been recording since earlier, when she’d halfmindedly turned it off. 

“Couldn’t catch that, could you?” he asked. He gave an insane burst of laughter, and flopped backwards in the chair weakly, giggling furiously all the while.

 

 


	2. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **time |tīm| noun**   
>  _1\. the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole: travel through space and time | one of the greatest wits of all time._
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

It began at night, in the darkness of his room, when it had started. Interrupted darkness, the darkness that is think enough to blanket the world, but has not smothered it yet either.  And every twenty minutes or so, there'd be another interrupting flick of the lighter as he had to relight the cigarette he kept forgetting was between his lips, and a pause in the constant tapping for him to inhale, before the continuous click, click started up again.  Being late always made him so nervous. If someone did come bursting through the door, it wouldn't be to tell him lights out and take away his computer.

So instead of stopping, or slowing down, or even putting out the cigarette, because that was definitely less allowed than the laptop, Mail lowered the brightness and concentrated on reaching the next checkpoint.  He only paused when the internet suddenly died and he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Mail." The voice was deep, dangerous, and he didn't even have to look to know who it was. He shut the laptop slowly and cocked his head to the side, then sucked on the cigarette to get it to flare a little. It gave a reassuring puff, filling his lungs with enough smoke that he could almost drown out the smell of alcohol as it wormed its way down his throat.

"Yes?"

"What have I said about using the computer late at night?" There was a thud as he put down the glass down on his desk, and another one when he stepped towards him. His voice was surprisingly even and collected. "You think you can get away with anything now, don't you, you little shit?"

"You're drunk. Does it really matter what I think now? Because we both know why you're here," Mail snarled in disgust. “Coming to beat me up again? Or maybe vomit on me this time and pass out on my floor?"

"Don't back-talk your father!" he snapped suddenly, breaking the calm aura like a bubble with the slap he laid flat against the side of his head. His hand was cold and sweaty, as though he'd been doing nothing but sit in the living room and grip the cold glass of a bottle. "Ungrateful little fucking pyro," he said, giving him another smack and knocking him to the floor.

And then, before he could have protested, his hands were forced above his head. The putrid stench of vomit sent him reeling backwards when his father's lips caught his throat in a ragged kiss, but a kiss wouldn't be something so awful feeling. It shouldn't be something that sent his stomach into nervous backflips.

"Get off me!" he shouted, kicking out at him and connecting with his shin. He didn’t like this, didn’t like how he’d seen it coming, from the touching of his hair to the brush of skin he occasionally felt now. The raw, rushing panic gripped him and shook him hard, and he tried to wrench his arms away desperately.

He gave a guttural gasp for air at the contact, wincing slightly, but his grip remained firm as he held him against the wall. Eyes narrowed until they were only slits, he stared him down, and the fight drained out of Mail like he'd pulled some kind of plug.

"This is your fault," he growled. "This is all your fault. If it wasn't for you, she'd still be alive."

“What the hell does she have to do with this?" His eyes were wide in fear, scanning the room for some kind of escape. There was none, of course. No one to hear him scream and yell until his voice disappeared.

"Shut up." He grabbed him and threw him to the floor again, looming over like some kind of horrible nightmare.

“Why?" he asked desperately, yelling the word, hoping there was something that the alcohol hadn't swallowed up yet. 

“I said quiet."

* * *

It wasn't dark anymore, it was beyond the point where the grey could still have been called black. Mail sat on his bed, flicking the lighter open and closed, pausing to stare at the flame occasionally. Then, he continued chipping away at the side of the Zippo, adding another T to the other letters.

They said there was nothing time couldn't heal.

"They" were full of shit.


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **night·mare|nīt′mâr′|noun**   
>  _1\. A dream arousing feelings of intense fear, horror, and distress._   
>  _2\. An event or experience that is intensely distressing._
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

The nightmares had become repetitive. Almost normal, even, to the point where he knew the face of the monster around every corner as well as he knew his own. He ran through the same mazes every night, like a lab rat that could never quite jump over the walls.

Whenever something like this happened, he woke up alone, more often than not. When he didn't, he went downstairs and slept on the couch for a few hours to pretend he did. 

"Mail?"

The blurry image of the school consoler swam back into focus and snapped him back into reality. She was slender, built like a graceful kind of plant, the type that was liable to snap in two. She had a pointed chin, and soft, sunken, eyes, like she'd spent too many nights without sleep. Someone like him.

Almost.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" 

The door was closed and she leaned forward in a nonthreatening manner. He stared her up and down a few times, couldn't even remember her name from the brief and purely polite handshake that had happened not even a minute before. Ms... France? Frank? Franz? Whatever her name was, she didn't seem mean-spirited, and she probably could have helped him. And he almost opened up, almost explained everything to her right then and there.

"I... I was wondering," he began.

"Yes?"

The words were clinging to the roof of his mouth, and refused to be pried loose. He might as well have tried to say a tongue twister while chewing a gluestick for how hard it was to unstick his teeth and force them out. 

"I, er, well I'm kind of, er, being bullied."

It wasn't a complete lie. 

"Hm? And who by?" Her brown eyes grew wide in concern. "You can't keep these things bottled up forever, you know."

"I know," he agreed somewhat guiltily. "But I don't want to say who by yet." The lighter he kept in his pocket itched to be taken out and flicked open, a nervous tick that demanded attention. He had to pin his hand down under the table. "They just make me feel ruined, inside and out."

Miss F's expression became unreadable for a second, and she tore off a piece of paper suddenly to make a note on it. Then she looked up, and gestured for him to continue.

"It started with an accident. I didn't mean to do anything wrong, but I did, and I can never fix it."

"Why not?"

"Because I just can't."

"Alright. Then try and tell me about what happened next."

“They’ve been teasing me." Teasing touches and teasing words whispered in his ears, and coarse, threatening hisses that were shot at him when he walked by his father for weeks. Glares that he could feel even through his door when he walked by in the hallway.

Miss F jotted something else down, then put her head resting on one fist, sitting like she was in a throne and not a stuffy office. "Keep going. Don't stop talking unless I stop you, alright?"

"Alright."

"So go on."

"I just can't take it anymore," he finished lamely.

There was a moment of tense silence, and she stared at him expectantly. "That's it?"

"Yeah."

But part of that was a lie. It wasn't teasing anymore, it was assault. Even when his voice stopped, his words always rang in his head until Mail fell asleep.

"Well, Mail, I can't help you stop it without more details, but teasing doesn’t generally get too bad. And of course, without an honest answer, I won’t really know exactly what the whole issue is anyhow, but I can try and help you cope. Is that alright?" she asked, smiling a little. "Because I don't think you're telling me anything even close to the whole truth." She tapped her pencil on her chin.

He sank a little in the chair and breathed, because she was right, but now wasn't the time to tell the truth. Now was the time to just let out part of what he'd been holding in because he was honestly right about to snap under the pressure. "Yeah, alright."

Another wide smile, and another scribble. "I want you to read this," she said, pushing forward the note.

He stared at it a moment, then shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"You said not to lie," he answered simply.

And then he stood up and walked out, careful to let the door slam behind him.

 


	4. Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **wait |wāt| verb [ no obj. ]**   
>  _1\. stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or until something else happens._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

The world sometimes felt like it had stopped turning on Mail when he was at home. Late November opened her arms as Winter's mistress and welcomed him home, and the same flakey white snow that fell without change every year fell once again from the sky, yet it still felt like he’d been trapped in September. School however, had changed marginally. He'd gone to see Miss Frank a few more times, each time staying a little longer than previously. 

"So, Mail, what's new today?" She added an S to the word APPLE and continued staring at the troublesome Q.

"Nothing much." They'd taken to playing BananaGrams when bored, and Mail was already done with his letters, but he waited so as to be polite. Finally, she caved and picked another 4 out, and he followed suit. "I have a test coming up next period."

"Did you study?"

"No."

She gave a dry laugh. "You're going to have to actually start to try once you go into grade ten you know. Even now it's incredible you manage to stay afloat."

"Mhm."

"I'm serious you know Mail. If you keep this up, I'm going to have to actually talk to your teachers about it. And you and I both know if they ask how I know, I'd have tell them that you come here so often."

Mail didn't respond, only continued to stare downwards as he turned HOST into GHOST to get rid of his G. Then he gave a long, drawn-out sigh, and flicked out his lighter, rescratching over the last 8 with his knife. "See you think there's one way around this problem, the same way you think there's only one direct route from here to the cafeteria. Down the hall, down the stairs, across the locker room. But here's what you've gotta understand, it's not the only way: it's just the most practical. I used to think like that too, where anything that wasn't practical wasn't possible; what you've gotta realize is that at some point in time, practical becomes irrelevant and you begin to be able to walk through the walls."

Miss Frank stared at him a moment. She pulled out the notepad again and began tapping her chin. "How did you come to that conclusion?" She was startled by the openly hostile glare it got.

"I'd really like if you could put that away, Ms." Mail looked at the paper like it was his mortal enemy. "I'm telling you this because I want your opinion, not your analysis." 

"Fine. But in that case, call me Adrienne."

"But-"

"No buts," she insisted. "It's clearly a friend you need, not a teacher."

Mail didn't think he needed either, but he kept his mouth shut and frowned at the floor. "I just don't think it's necessary is all," he mumbled.

"No, Mail, it really, really is. Trust me, I know-" She stopped abruptly, falling short at his expression.

"Well  _fine,_ " he yelled, his face suddenly red with both embarrassment and anger. "But don't talk to me like you know me! You don’t know me, you don’t know _shit_ about me. Don't talk to me as if I can actually tell you everything I've wanted to and then just leave, because I can't. Even shrinks have to report almost everything in the end."

"Mail, I-"

"And don't call me Mail! God, do you have any idea how much I've started to hate that name since I was born?" He gave a humourless laugh, verging on slightly malicious. His face stayed crooked after the laughter stopped, the grin spilling more on to the left and giving him a lopsided look.  "I don't even know if my parents wanted to name me off the post or the unit of measurement! It's an awful name, and I hate it. You don't know me, Ms. Frank. You know I can spell, and you know I'm smart, but what have I told you that's really important?"

Miss Frank looked uncannily calm. She continued to tap the pencil along her jawline while he yelled, not even trying to get a word in edgewise. And when he finally stopped, she put it down and leaned on her fist.

"I'm sorry."

Mail's expression fell flat. "You're what now?"

"Sorry. You're right, I don't know anything about you. So what should I call you then?"

He stared guiltily at the floor, then tossed her the lighter. She caught it in one hand, and looked to the side where he'd been scratching the letters in.

"Matthew 26:28?"

"Yeah.  _This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins_."

"You didn't strike me as the religious type."

He shuffled his feet. "I'm not."

"How about," she pondered blankly, eyes darting around the whitewashed room. "How about I call you Matthew?"

He paused.

"Or maybe just Matt?"

Nodded slightly, then went back to shuffling his feet. "I'd like that, yeah," he said in a tiny voice.

"Alright, Matt. I'm Adrianne." She offered him her hand again, and he eyed it warily, to an amused expression. "Just to start over. As friends."

And he took it, shook it lightly.

"Hi Adrianne, I'm Matt."


	5. Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **daydream |ˈdāˌdrēm| noun**   
>  _a series of pleasant thoughts that distract one's attention from the present._
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

Matt flicked the pencil back and forth between his hands and wondered what kind of word he could make with an X and a T.

"It's been a few months now Matt," Ms. Frank said gently.

"I know." Final exams were coming up in a few days, but he hadn't studied. He never did. "But not yet." He stared back at the letters, then put one on either side of an A to make TAX. "Peel, by the way."

They both reached forward and picked out four letters from the bag. His hand slipped a little and the bruise became evident for a second, but he doubted she saw it. The room fell back into a comfortable silence.

"Remember the lie," she said suddenly, mimicking quotation marks in the air, "that you wouldn't say?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to repeat it to yourself whenever you can. In your head, or out loud, no matter how strange it seems. Ok?"

"Why?" He cocked an eyebrow and gave her an inquisitive glance.

"Because you are," she answered briefly, looking down at her letters again, the calm descending over them like a blanket. "And because I'm doing this to help you, and no other reason."

Matt stared downwards and thought about it briefly, the brown of the desk burning into his eyes with an intensity it shouldn't be able to hold.

 


	6. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **truth |tro͞oTH| noun**   
>  _the quality or state of being true._   
>  _"he had to accept the truth of her accusation"_
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

The bag felt heavy on his shoulders as he walked in the entrance. The late April's breeze carried a scent of life, but disappeared within seconds of passing through the doorway. His bag hit the floor with a resounding thud. 

Scuttling quickly by the kitchen and down the hall, Matt silently sprang up the stairs two at a time, only stopping when he was safely in his room and the door was closed. He pulled the Acer out from under his bed and opened it, clicking about five different applications and sitting down. 

Some people had safe rooms. Some people made boxes out of metal and sat in them trying to preserve themselves from the outside world, built walls around their consciousness and never let them be broken down. Some people were reserved outside, while inside they had so much more they wanted to say.

Matt was one of these people, and the internet had become his safe box.

Behind the anonymity of a screen, he could be anything. He could be a happy college student who was trying to pass the time, he could be a highschool dropout talking about drugs. He could be six or he could be sixty. Like a blanket that had descended on the reality of the world, the internet made it black and fuzzy and dark so that people could only believe what you told them.

Logging in to his regular chatroom, it asked him to select a name. He typed  **WasMadeThisMatty**  and tapped enter, the screen going white for a second before other names appeared on the screen.

**Zaki:** **Hey Matty**

**RestlessRose:** **tf were you its like three hours after you normally come on**

Matt gave a tiny smile that he was remembered, then tapped back

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **sorry, I was busy**

There was a pause in the chat, before someone else sent a message.

**dikbut369:** **hi**

**RestlessRose:** **this is a friend of mine matty btw. so what were you busy with?**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **eh, school. stuff, you know, also seducing beautiful girls- I mean studying lol**

**RestlessRose:** **You still have school? mine finished already lol your spring semester is lon**

**dikbut369:** **almost as long as myDICK**

Matt heard a noise from downstairs and shivered.

**Zaki:** **Shut it dikbut**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **sorry, I know I just got here but I gotta go again, homework. Just wanted to tell you guys i was alive :3**

**Zaki:** **Ok, bye :3**

**RestlessRose:** **luv u matty u better be back later u prick**

**dikbut369:** **shut up u dumbas fag later man**

Matt closed the computer quietly and slid it back under his bed, then crawled into the covers to pretend he didn't exist.  It had been a while since the last time.  There was a creak outside the door, and another as it opened. He didn’t look out of the sheets, there was only ever one other person in the house

"Mail."

A cold hand passed over the covers.

"Mail," the voice repeated, and he had to use all the strength he had left to not start shaking again. "Mail, Mail, Mail, Mail. Where were you all day?" it crooned.

Matt didn't speak.

"I was so horribly bored," he slurred gently, pulling the covers back and revealing his curled body underneath. "Was school good today? I hope it was. Because otherwise you should hope you have an even better reason for not being home."

_I’m not mom,_ he thought angrily, and, like it usually did before he caved in, his temper began to flare.

His father was oblivious to his growing anger however. He grabbed his shoulder and threw him to the floor again, grinning. It was one of his favourite ways to play with his favourite little toy. He was about to reach down and forcibly uncurl him when a leg shot out at his face, catching him in the chest. 

Panting, Matt scrambled to his feet and leaned on the bedpost, his father staggering backwards.

And then, he began to laugh. The low gurgles came out in odd gasps, echoing back and leaving a stale tension in the air. Matt stood up straight again, and tried to run out by the laughing man, but he reached out an arm to stop him, giggling the whole time.

"Just like your mother," he said between gritted teeth, and wrestled him back down, one hand clenched around his neck. Matt bucked and kicked, trying to throw him off to no avail, screaming until the other hand reached down as well and muzzled him. Silent tears formed at the corners of his eyes, but in his last sliver of pride he refused to let them fall.

_Because it's my fault, he reminded himself_ , and like every other time, he gave up.

There was the feeling of the air leaving his lungs when his pants were slowly unzipped and peeled from his legs, and, with a stiff jolt, his briefs being torn off in one swift motion, leaving him naked from the waist down and shivering. A zip from behind him, and he mentally prepared himself, grinding his teeth together.

“Please. I don’t want this.” he whined, barely a whisper. He wasn't even drunk. There was no smell of alcohol, and no mistaking the simplicity of his reason; he wanted to be cruel.

His crying fell on deaf ears. The pressure on his back only increased as his father's arm wrapped around his body.

"Shut up."

* * *

Matt heard the footsteps fade away outside, and curled tighter under the covers. His sweat, among other things, soaked the sheet, but he didn't pull it away yet. It was far better to be filthy and ashamed than accepting.

So instead of crying more, or calling the cops, social services, someone, Matt pulled out his laptop again and set it in his lap, ignoring the stickiness. Because fighting it after it had already happened was the same as acknowledging it happened.

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **Back**

**RestlessRose:** **hey hey hey man c:**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **hi**

**N:** **Might I ask why you left so shortly?**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **when did N get here? xD**

**N:** **Right after you said bye. Like fifteen minutes ago maybe?**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **ah.**

He clicked around absentmindedly, then gave a long sigh and opened another tab, but there was a ding that drew his attention back to the chatroom.

**N:** **Hey, about this disappearing all the time,**

Matt swallowed nervously.

**N:** **You haven't been doing it a lot lately, and the inconsistencies make me believe it's not actually for homework. So why do you leave so often then Matty? Zaki and I were just talking about that actually.**

**Zaki:** **Indeed.**

**N:** **From what I'm able to understand in fact, your semester should be long over if you are in fact attending To-Oh University in Ohio. You'll have to forgive me for looking up statistics on it, but I felt I had no choice if it was going to help you in the long run.**

He froze entirely, mind scrambling to find a better reason than school. Grocery shopping? You couldn't go grocery shopping in ten or fifteen minutes. Sports? No. Chores maybe? Chores!

**WasMadeThisMatty:**   **Yeah, sorry about that, I just had to put in some laundry and I didn't want to seem like I was ditching you guys over dirty clothes, am I right? xD**

**N:**   **I'm not convinced, but whatever you say Matty.**

**Zaki:** **If there's something wrong though Matty, just tell us. We'll help you.**

**WasMadeThisMatty:** **right, thanks guys, but there's nothing wrong. xD I'll talk to you omorrow ok?**

**dikbut369:** **back, whatd i miss**

Matt slammed the computer closed and thrust it back under his bed. No matter where he went, he could never escape it. Never. He shook a little and held his knees to his chest, trying to forget everything from after he got home.

His safe box was now lined with poison.


	7. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **rest |rest| verb [ no obj. ]**   
>  _1\. cease work or movement in order to relax, refresh oneself, or recover strength_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

"You've gotten better," he noted dully.

"Thanks. I do try." Adrianne rolled the pencil between her index and middle fingers, and looked pensively at the letters. "Though I'll admit I was lucky today. Peel."

Another four letters were added on to his spare C and N, a Y, another N, a T, and a G. No vowels. He scanned the table, trying to figure out how he could get rid of them all, then removed the word ROILIER and rearranged it as NITROGLYCERIN. Satisfied, he tapped the table and waited politely. 

"Of course, I'm still clearly no match for you." She smirked idly, spelling out MILL. There was a brief flash of pride in there too he thought. "And to think I'll have no one to play with all summer, it really is quite a shame. Lamentable, really, that your last exam was today." A twang of gentle regret hung in the silence. 

Matt remained quiet and reached for the bag to lessen the tension, but there were no letters left. The game was over.

"But at least you'll be able to stay home, get some rest maybe? At least you won't have to come to school."

"Yeah." Matt's voice held a small amount of resentment in it. Rest. At home. That was funny. "Listen, I should go now, but it's been really, really fun. So thanks," he said, a forced smile on his lips.

She gave him a long stare, then cleared her throat slightly. "Hey, look, if you want, if those bullies are still bothering you over summer I mean," she said slowly, reading his expression like a magazine, "well, I do own a house phone of course. I'll give it to you, but you can't tell anyone about you having my number though, alright?"

His head jerked upwards sharply. That would be great, that would be wonderful, that would be-

"And you can't abuse it either, ok?"

-that would be fine. At least he might be able to get some kind of actual rest in then. "Yeah," he repeated, a little brighter. "Yeah that'd be really good. Really, really good. But I should go now, my dad will be mad if I'm late home."

"Alright," she said, fixing him with a wide smile, then scribbled out the digits on a paper clipping hastily. "Don't be afraid to use it either, if you need to," she added, handing him the number. "Oh, and one last thing..."

"Hm?" he asked quietly, cocking his head to the side when she removed a box from her desk.

"I want you to have this," she said gently. She handed him the box and sat patiently, legs crossed somewhat awkwardly in a yoga position on her chair, looking like an excited schoolgirl again. 

Matt opened the box carefully, and inside there was a pair of goggles, orange flashy things that looked like they should have belonged to a racer.

"I know they're not what you might have expected, but I figured you would like them, and honestly I don't think you needed another lighter for what it's worth." She smiled lightly, a timid expression on her lips. "You _do_ like them, right?"

Matt stared, astonished at the beautiful colour and shape. He put them on, and they fit like they were made for him. "Yeah, yeah, no these are great. Really," he beamed.

"Good," she replied. "I hope I see you wearing them next year."

"Alright," he imitated, and they both laughed. "Thank you Adrianne. I'll see you at the beginning of next year, if everything goes well." He picked up his bag, still grinning, and left abruptly, leaving with a brief, strictly polite, hug.

Adrianne sighed, then sat down at her desk again.

* * *

**A. Frank’s Computer. Date: 17th June, 2008**

Notes on Project M.  
Subject continues to be reluctant to divulge true problems. Board director continues to ignore clear mental and physical abuse of subject, since therapy is not paid for.

She paused, then added.

Not sure how to continue procedure.

She ran a hand through her hair, closed the laptop, and leaned on her fist. Keeping tabs on Matt was not officially necessary, considering that firstly, they were friends, not coworkers or subjects as she so bluntly referred to him. A mutualistically beneficial relationship, for him, to relax, to be able to be under more normal circumstances, and for her to be able to actually enjoy talking to someone at her job. It was tiring, the small talk and the meetings, or worse, as he had put it before, the analysis of each and every thing her patients said. And secondly, as she'd said, it wasn't official. Documents simply weren't needed. She would use them anyways though, to analyze the more careful moments in their interviews she'd noticed.

For instance, the bruising on his neck and hands.

No, his face when she said the word home had been clear. He flinched. He _flinched_. People don't flinch when you talk about their home, they don't even think twice about it. There was definitely something up about his reactions, his physical injuries, none of it added up to simple bullying. Not the flinching at least. If he was being bullied in the school, Matt wouldn't have still hesitated to say who it was. 

Spinning around in the chair, Adrianne flipped on the radio and pondered a few more things. His hands, his wrists more precisely. Why were they bruised? Wouldn't a real bully be going for the head or stomach? Something more substantial? Unless Matt was faster on his feet than he was with his brain, there's no way he could block every punch thrown with his hands. And there was no other way to explain the marks on his neck as anything other than strangulation. 

Out of boredom, she opened and closed the drawer on her desk, then noticed the notepad inside. Lifting it out, it was the same notepad she'd been taking notes on during the first interview, and she reread the words carefully. Being bullied. Accident. Abuse. Assault. Ugly, inside and out. Feeling weakness, quite possibly. Subject is unclear on what causes have lead to this, and will not say who abuser is. Seems timid, do not attempt to pry information.

She suddenly opened the computer again, ignoring the notes on Matt and opening a new window, then typed 'bullying' into the searchbar. One of the frequently searched recommendations was 'bullying statistics' and she clicked it, feeling like she was delving deeper than she should, even though what she was doing now had almost nothing to do with him. The second link looked the most helpful, so she tapped it again and it took her to a white page with a red header.

 

**Bullying Statistics**

**Home - Info on Preventing Bullying, Harassment, Online/Social Bullying, and School Bullies.**

 

That looked promising. Underneath, it had been divided into four sections.

 

**Adult Bullying**

**Bullying Victims**

**Bullying Parents**

**School Bullying Statistics**

 

And that made the whole situation a lot clearer. Who else would be bullying him at home? She pressed a palm to her head and shook it at her own half-mindedness; he hadn't been lying, he just hadn't been telling the whole truth. It was one of his parents. And an accident he'd said, what could that have been? 

Then there was the choking. That wasn't the parents at least, it could be a sibling or even an uncle or aunt. She couldn't even imagine a parent choking their own kid. Spanking, or hitting, or even holding the wrist hard enough to bruise, yes, but not choking.

And the words he said specifically came looping back too. Accident. Inside and out. Those ones spoke loudest, and while she certainly couldn't figure out the accident without help, the other three were manageable. Inside and out, was he referring to emotional abuse as well, or something deeper? She couldn't quite fathom what would be deeper than emotional, except maybe abuse of loved ones and forced manipulation. Was it something sexual maybe? Or was it on the opposite end of the spectrum and closer to neglect?

Gnawing her knuckles, she stared at the notepad and back to the computer again. She hadn't been observing Matt's behaviour since his outburst back around Christmas, the only significant thing she remembered after that was his birthday. Why hadn't she taken more notes, been more methodical, been more-

No, she had been ignoring it out of respect. The same way she called him Matt out of respect and not Mail.

This was going to be tough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Notes: the ages and birthdays applied are the same as those in the anime, not the manga.)


	8. Starve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **starve |stärv| verb [ no obj. ]**  
>  _1\. (of a person or animal) suffer severely or die from hunger._  
>  • [ with obj. ] (usu. be starved of or for) deprive of something necessary.  
>   _ **ORIGIN** Old English steorfan ‘to die,’ of Germanic origin, probably from a base meaning ‘be rigid’_
> 
>    
>  **[Prologue Arc]**

"Mail, eat at least half your plate," his grandmother pleaded. "You're not going to get such a nice meal when your father is the one cooking you know."

"Helen, please, he eats quite well normally."

"Shush David," she hushed, waving a hand at him and giving him a dirty look. "He's skinny as a rail, and as for eating well, I wouldn't trust you to prepare anything more complicated than cereal. Mail, come on now honey, what's the matter?"

"I'm really fine grandma. I promise." He turned his lips upward in what he could hope was close enough to a smile and the went back to picking at the meat on his plate. He felt like he was going to be sick, but what he said instead was "I'm just not hungry."

"Then at least take off your goggles dear, how I miss seeing those lovely green-blue eyes. Talk to me."

He reluctantly pulled them away from his eyes and placed them on the table. Somewhere along the line, his grandmother had become convinced he had one green and one blue eye, though as far as he could tell they really weren't that different. While it was true one was a little lighter, it certainly wasn't worth fawning over like she did. On the other hand though, she wasn't likely to get any more grandchildren, so he could somewhat understand where she was coming from when she constantly doted on him. "I'm fine gran. But how are you?"

"I know you're not interested in eating and I know you're fine. And I don't think you want to hear about my boring life, so please talk to me dear. How is school going?" she asked again, leaning forward persistently. 

"Mail is the top of his class, you'll be pleased to note Helen." His father gave him a sideways glare before he continued. "I wouldn't be accepting of anything less however, considering how talented he is."

"Talented indeed," she interjected in an icy tone. Her smile was warm, but her teeth glittered dangerously. "I do hope you're helping such a talented boy with his schoolwork." He tried to reach for his beer while she spoke, but his grandmother put a firm hand on top of his, pinning it down.

His dad crossed his legs and sat back, ignoring the sudden chill at the table, then waved his other hand in a casual manner. "He works hard, you know that. More often than not, I'm the one who needs help from him."

"Really." The word was laced with poison.

"Ah, grandma," Matt said suddenly, "d'you want me to get you some tea or coffee or some-"

"Coffee would be wonderful darling, no decaf. I need my energy" she said, switching from cold to enthusiastic again, and Matt scurried off to escape the tension.

He had the tray in his hand, one decaf and one regular on top of it, but paused at the voices outside the dining room.

"Helen, please, be reasonable. I know you don't like me, but you can ask Mail, he's perfectly happy," a nervous voice said. He knew it was his father, but he'd never heard him this close to shaken before.

"He had better be, David. I don't know what Jenna possibly saw in you, but I don't see it. From my perspective, all I can see is a sour drunkard of a man who is far too hard on his son."

"Look, Helen. I'm sorry. We both lost a lot, and-"

"I don't care what you think you've lost, if you hurt my grandson, you'll be losing a whole lot more."

"You know, for a sixty year old woman, you really do need to learn some manners,” his father stated bitterly. Matt stepped back into the room, pretending to have heard nothing, and the argument fell flat, though his dad's lips were still pursed into a frown.

"Thank you dear," she said, accepting the drink gratefully and taking a sip.

"Thanks," his father grunted reluctantly, barely making eye contact and setting the cup down beside him. He gave a tiny nod of his head, and Matt swallowed nervously. He knew exactly what he meant, and he knew the consequences if he didn't listen too.

"Well, I'm feeling tired. I think I'm gonna sleep now, 'kay gram?"

"Alright honey. Sweet dreams," she said at his back as he disappeared out of the door. He went upstairs, grabbed his Walkman, then bounded back downstairs, careful to set it somewhere not too obvious. Pressing the record button, he went back into the dining room, to the surprised expression of the two adults.

"I thought you were going to bed," his father growled.

"I was," he replied casually. "Just forgot my goggles." He hooked them around one finger and began to walk out, when he heard a voice behind him and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mail?"

"Hm?" he asked, turning around.

"If you're not tired, you don't have to go yet. I would love even if you just sat here while your dad and I talked."

His tone was perfectly balanced, sounded natural as he forced another laugh, the fourth or fifth that evening. "I'm fine gram. Goodnight. Love you."

"Love you too dear."

* * *

Bless the WM-BF67. Bless the beaten up old machine he got at a yard sale for dirt cheap. He fumbled with the headphones in the dark of two AM and pressed play, not caring he'd just recorded over his favourite tape.

"I thought you were going to bed."

"I was. Just forgot my goggles."

"Mail?"

"Hm?"

"If you're not tired, you don't have to go yet. I would love even if you just sat here while your dad and I talked."

"I'm fine gram. Goodnight. Love you."

"Love you too dear."

There was a moment of silence as the sound of him bouncing back up the stairs faded, replaced quickly by static. For a second he worried the tape had stopped recording, but a small cough pierced the silence.

"David."

"..."

"I don't know what you're doing to that boy. He doesn't eat anything. He barely sleeps, we both know that was a stunt, what you told him to do. He doesn't talk. He acts like your hound dog, serving your dinner and cleaning your plate and getting you coffee without you so much as asking kindly."

A humourless chortle.

"He's just a regular teenager Helen. There's noting odd there."

Another pause, and a sigh.

"I'm old David. _Not stupid_. A teenager doesn't listen to everything ordered of him. A teenager has spirit, talks about his life, is invested in what he does, and more importantly, eats."

"There's nothing wrong with him."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm serious."

"And so am I. If I find out you mistreat him in any way, you'll regret it dearly."

"We've been through this Helen."

A sound that was similar to a coat and bag being picked up.

"I know we have. I'm reminding you that if you value your neck, you'd be wise to remember it too."

A creak, followed by the front door opening.

"Well, goodnight then Helen. Please understand I would never hurt Mail."

"You had better not."

There was a noise like something being slammed closed, and the sound of feet shuffling back to the kitchen. He hit the stop button, having heard enough, and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not relevant but while I was writing this late at night, a fucking big ass immortal invincible bug decided to land on my pillow right next to my fucking head and I had to kill it, first trying to smack it against the pillow feverishly (which did jack shit,) and eventually ending up squishing it between my library card and an old iTunes card.
> 
> Fuck you bug.
> 
> But thank the bug for the chapter because I couldn't sleep out of fear there were more after and thus finished it in one night.


	9. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **free |frē| adjective (freer |ˈfrēər| , freest |ˈfrēəst| )**  
>  _1\. not under the control or in the power of another; able to act or be done as one wishes: I have no ambitions other than to have a happy life and be free_  
>   
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

It had been a month, and she was sitting on her porch, stroking Slinky with the same foggymindedness she did everything. Not that the cat minded, it was happy to have been petted at all, and for a second she wondered who in their right mind had claimed cats couldn't be affectionate.

That was the only problem with summer that is; it have her too much time to think, and not enough energy to think about everything she wanted to. A lot of things were on her mind right now, her mother's upcoming visit, her boyfriend's request she move in sometime; despite being well settled into the new job, she was still young and had lots to do. And still she ignored them, letting them fester in the back of he mind while the cat purred louder and louder.

Of course, on the topic of thinking about things, Matt. Matt was always a problem, at the forefront of her thoughts when she woke up and the last thoughts before she fell asleep. It would have probably been smarter to have asked for his number so she could keep tabs on him, but it was too late now. All she could do was sit and wait for the days to roll by, marking down the time until school began again. God, if you'd told her when she was a kid that she'd ever be so eager for school to start, she would have thought you were crazy, and yet here she was. 

And that was, in fact, exactly what Adrianne Frank was still doing when the phone rang, picked up before it could even finish its first ring.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" A deep and unfamiliar voice boomed out of the phone.

It was never wise to give out your name to random people when they called your house, but at the same time she was curious to know who it was. It definitely wasn't a salesperson, they always asked if a "Miss Frank" was home.

"Adrianne," she said, only giving her first name.

"I see." The call ended suddenly with those two words, and she only snapped back to reality at the dial tone.

"Rude," she mused to herself. "I wonder who that was."

And within a few minutes, she forgot about the encounter entirely, gone back to wondering about Matt and her mother and moving out again.

 

* * *

 

Mail's father hung up the phone and flipped idly through the school phone directory once again. He was searching for the number he'd just deleted, and sure enough, found it in small black print next to the name "Frank, Adrianne - School Consoler". He gave a quiet huff of anger and closed the book before tossing it back on the desk, furious. Why did Mail have the school consoler saved under his contacts? The little shit had been talking, that was for sure, and he had to be shut up. He walked up the stairs two at a time and kicked open the door like he was so used to doing now, scanning the room for Mail. 

And Mail was gone.

He wasn't just hiding under the covers this time, he was actually gone, no trace of him left in the room. Not in the closet, not curled in under the bed, not behind the doors. The alcohol blurred his senses somewhat, but he should still have been quite able to find him at least.

So when he reached to open the spare wardrobe that sat empty in the corner, he wasn't expecting much, considering it was the most obvious spot out of them all.

And he definitely wasn't expecting the wooden bat that came cracking down on his skull either.

 

* * *

Matt emerged from the wardrobe, and reached into his dad's pocket. He pulled out his phone, and looked in the contacts. And, sure enough, right there, in the recent calls, was Adrianne's number. The number he'd memorized but never used. He looked at it for a second, shocked it had been so easy, and tapped the numbers back in, the ringing the only noise besides the hum of his thoughts.

"Hello?"

"Miss Frank," he said quietly, relieved. "Miss Frank. Adrianne, I mean. Right." And then he had an unexpected bout of laughter. "Adrianne, I did it now. I really did it now."

"Did what now?" she asked, confusion and concern mixing together in her voice.

"Just come over," he giggled, the sounds coming out of his mouth making less and less sense, and in turn creating more sick laughter. "I want to talk. About everything. I want to explain it to you, and you can ask any questions you want after. Just come."

"Wait, what?" Confusion turned to joy and shock, and he could almost see her smiling face. He felt sick. "Matt, this is great! Where do you want to meet then?"

"In front of my house. 379, River Street. You'll recognize it," he assured her confidently, wanting nothing more than her to not come, find some reason to not make him-

"Great! I actually live fairly close, I'll be there in ten minutes!"

Fuck.

"Alright," he said, and the laugh now was forced, sounding less crazy and more sad again, more regular. He felt the glory that filled him dissipate into thin air, leaving him as just a shell. "I'll see you soon then."

"Bye Matt!"

"Bye," he said, but she'd already hung up.

His dad moved a little, catching his attention, and he lifted the bat again. There was an innocently evil glint in his eye when he eagerly shoved the phone in his pocket again and walked over leisurely.

"You wanted to hurt me so badly," he said, taking the bat and lining it up with his head. The only reply it got him was a grunt and a tiny thump as herolled over. "Why?"

No response.

"Do you think that's how mom wanted us to live?"

Nothing.

"You fucking piece of trash. I should just kill you." He wasn't completely in control of himself anymore, shaking with each jerky movement. “Kill you. Just kill you. Kill… you." The two words became a mantra he whispered as the bat rose slowly and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

And then, finally, he opened his eyes to look in fear at his son, bright blue hidden behind orange glass, unforgiving. The whole of his body was trembling, but not in fear anymore, as was made evident by his beaming face.

"You wanted to hurt me so badly, _dad_. So," he said slowly, smile disappearing for a second, "no hard feelings if I do the same, right?"


	10. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **fire |fīr| noun**   
>  _1\. a destructive burning of something: a fire at a hotel._   
>  _2\. a burning sensation in the body._
> 
>  
> 
> **[Prologue Arc]**

She stood in shock, eyes scanning the twisted, melting numbers and the street sign again, hoping to dear god she had the wrong house, but she knew she didn't. Because between the ash and smoke, she could make out a human figure kneeling where the lawn should have been, goggle straps crooked and torn and burnt across the back of his bald, raw skull. 

Walking up to him quietly, she wondered if she should call the cops, but ignored the instinct. Instead she put a hand on Matt's shoulder, feeling the unexpected and relieving wetness from his tears.

"Adrianne, I'm... I'm so sorry," he choked. "I ruined them, ruined it.."

“You haven't ruined anything." She kneeled next to him and hugged his head to the side of her chest.

"But, your gift. The goggles. I'm so sorry Adrianne."

Her expression narrowed in concern. "Don't be worried about that right now. I just want you to talk to me. We can buy another pair."

Matt sighed, his breath dissolving in the smoke. "I finally did it. I did it."

"Did what? Matt, please just talk to me. We have to get away from here, please get up." He barely even noticed her speaking, being too preoccupied with staring at the flames.

"It's my fault."

And from three words, a whole waterfall of them followed.

"It's my fault Adrianne. It was sixteen months ago now, and the three of us were camping. And she, she said I should camp with dad, that "it'd be good for bonding," and it was. We got along great, but then at night I got bored, and I went out and made a fire, with her lighter too, and it just... it all burned down. All of it. The forest, the campsites, mom's tent. Ashes. And it was all my fault, I burned her, I killed her.

"Dad, dad just never forgave me. Dad hated me." He paused and gave a dry laugh. "He would get drunk. He started by- by touching me. Grabbing me by the arm or brushing my thighs or- just touching me. And one night, one night he raped me. Just like that. He did other stuff, he hit me, he called me mom's name a few times and cried, and it was all my fault. But it's ok, because he won't be bothering me anymore." He smiled oddly at the flames.

"And you know what Adrianne? I hated him, but I hated me too. I hated everything except the fire that killed her, because I could never hate fire. And she knew that too. She gave me the silver Zippo you saw, the one I showed you that I always had. Have.  _This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins._  'Cause my blood is the fire, hah, it's the only thing that keeps me going. Can I be forgiven? Can I baptize myself in fire, Ms. Frank?"

She got the distinct feeling she really should have called the cops now, a cold feeling seeping through her despite the heat.

"So here's what really happened tonight, why you found me here alone." His face grew eerily serious and calm suddenly, and she knew she should run, but she couldn't move an inch. "I killed him too, because I was mad and I could. Because he was so bent on hurting me, I had to hurt him back."

"Matt, this isn't funny-" she began, but he cut in too quickly for her to say anything more.

"I'm not joking," he said, beaming again, and she only just noticed the baseball bat hidden under his legs.  It was glistening in the firelight with something.

"Matt, stop," she ordered, but he just kept talking. 

"To everyone else, Mail Jeevas burned to death in a house fire of indeterminate cause, alongside David Jeevas, his father, and his only friend who was the consoler from the local school, who had helped him with his disturbing psychological problems. She was the one who rushed in to save him against all odds. You'll be a hero, and I’ll be a princess. Someone useless who only needs saving."

" _Matt,_ " she gurgled desperately, falling backwards and trying to crawl away. He stood up, each step he took towards her sounding like thunder, counting down her seconds. "Matt I, I need to go, Matt _please_ stop it," she said, but even to her it sounded weak.

"Of course, that's not the real reason. The real reason is you know too much now. But you always wanted to, didn't you?” he asked, eyes gleaming. "You kept observing me like some kind of specimen in a jar, like some curious insect. And you knew, deep down, that I would probably kill you if you kept letting me in. I would probably be the end, with my "timidness" and "quiet attitude". So don't pretend you didn't really want it, anyways." He lifted the bat he was dragging by his feet, standing on unsteady legs as she sat in shock, deep, sunken eyes in a panic. "Don't worry about me, miss Frank. Bodies are flammable, and so is my bat."

With a final  _thunk_ , the world went dark, fire spreading through her head and burning her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- End of the Prologue -


	11. Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **repetition |ˌrepəˈtiSHən| noun**   
>  _1\. the action of repeating something that has already been said or written: her comments are worthy of repetition | a repetition of his reply to the delegation._   
>  _2\. [ often with negative ] the recurrence of an action or event: there was to be no repetition of the interwar years | I didn't want a repetition of the scene in my office that morning._

The smoke curled up and away from his face, a grey staircase up to the black night. Matt watched it disappear, and then took another sip of his drink. He didn't even know what he had in the glass, but it was clear and tasted bitter, and he knew it would get him drunk soon enough, so he kept sipping away at it. The stars would probably have been beautiful, if he could have seen them that is, but the streetlamps were on, and the bar's windows were far too bright for even the brightest star out there.

He took another breath of smoke, and blew another cloud of grey into the dark. Life was good.

And he was bored with it.

Not bored in the way he wanted to go burn something insignificant down, a log, a woodpile, a house, the city. No, he was bored of that too. And besides, he liked it here, he'd been staying in the back alleys and prowling the streets of LA for almost four months now. If he burned something down again, there was no avoiding the fact he'd have to move on, somewhere else, somewhere probably worse than here. 

For the past four years he'd been moving. He'd been through Boston down to Miami and everywhere in between. He'd stayed in Austin a few months, gone on to Denver. Stopped in Seattle at one point, for a day, a week, a month it had turned into, and somehow wound up down in LA. He camped in the back alleys, using whatever he could to scrape by, occasionally stealing when it was needed.

So Matt continued, hitchhiking, walking, occasionally buying a bus ticket with his newfound income, but never flying. He'd burned his passport in the fire intentionally, he left no traces that Mail Jeevas still existed. He only came to this bar because they didn't ask for ID, after all. He kept most of his personal belongings in the apartment he'd moved in to three months ago once he'd realized he wanted to stay here longer this time, maybe a year, and he'd bleached and dyed his once-brown hair a vivid red. The only thing that Mail Jeevas and Matt still had in common was they both always, _always_  wore goggles. That was another thing he'd done, gone out and found himself a new pair, a way of mourning what he'd lost. These were a little less vivid, more amber than orange, and rimmed with white, but he still wore them constantly.

He had them on right now, actually, he barely noticed the yellowish tinge everything had anymore. It had been a while since he'd last taken them off, long enough he was used to the odd colouration. And when, finally, the glass became empty and his cigarette burned out, he ground it against the sidewalk and walked back inside. The crowd parted for him as he marched over and dropped the cup on the counter, many of them giving him strange looks as he shoved them out of the way. Jack gave him a curt nod from the other side, and a quiet have a nice night he barely heard over the rest of the noise. Pulling a second cigarette out even though he really didn't want it, he made his way back through the throng of people and into the dark once again.

He took out his Zippo too, the engraving worn down to  _M    hev 2  :28_. Half of the W had been rubbed away, leaving a V in its place. It needed a refill, actually, but for now he'd be alright, since he could still get a weak flame out of it. Cupping it lightly, he watched the tip of the Camelback flare into a red point, and leaned back to inhale.

What he wasn't expecting was the gun at the base of his head when he'd straightened his back.

"Money," a voice demanded. "Now."

"Alright," Matt said carefully, reaching into his pocket. "Just give me a minute."

"Now. A minute is too much time. Unless you want a bullet through your skull; it ends the same way for me no matter what." The voice got more impatient, as though he couldn't even wait long enough to finish his own sentences.

"Maybe. But I think a minute is just long enough," he said as he whirled around, switchblade in his hand. He plunged it hilt-deep into the mugger's stomach, and the reaction he got from it made him smile wide. "for me to work out of my schedule."

He could see his attacker's face now too, a skinny, pale sort of guy who was no older than him, chin-length blonde hair messy and hanging in front of his blue eyes. His face was frozen in pain, though the gun was still somehow held weakly in his left hand. Matt plucked it out of it in one smooth movement and tossed it aside.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

"Mello!"

A bullet hit the bricks behind him, and he looked away into the shadows of the alley. Matt knew that whoever was shooting, they wouldn't miss twice.

"Well, blondie," Matt crooned, twisting the knife slightly, causing him to howl, "it looks we're gonna have to cut this session short." Another shot went off right above his head, but he ignored it entirely. He held the knife by the end of the handle now, put a foot on his attacker's chest and kicked him backwards, off the blade and on to the cement.

And then, with a final look over his shoulder and an earsplitting grin, Matt disappeared into the darkness of the night.

* * *

 

The cold after-midnight air chilled him to the bone as he tore down every side street and back alley he knew in a wild attempt to make sure he wasn't being followed. He finally stopped, a half hour later, panting and sweaty in front of his apartment building. Pushing the door open and the climb to the fourth floor was all he had the brainpower to concentrate on.

_ He'd done it again. _

He unlocked the door and slid inside silently, the lock clicking back in place the only sound he could hear. Red poked her head out of the kitchenette, her beautiful calico pattern shining in the low lighting. She padded over silently and rubbed up against his leg, purring loudly. And then when he slid down against the wall to sit next to her, she began to lick the blood off his hands, the blood he'd totally forgotten about. He didn't bother to stop her; it wasn't exactly harmful anyways, right? Unless his attacker had AIDs, in which case he was probably fucked over too.

He couldn't let himself keep  _doing_ that, goddamn it.

He got up, teetering slightly out of fatigue, and made towards the back of the apartment where his bedroom was. The only detour was to the fridge to grab a beer, the hiss of air strangely satisfying as it was cracked open. Can in hand, he made his way to the bare mattress and bundled himself up in the spare blankets he'd set out. Red joined him a minute later, curling into the hollow in his chest and licking at his hand again.

For the first time in a long time, Matt lay back and thought about the day. He'd done almost nothing. Alright, sure, he'd tagged by Tim's place and hung there for a while, amusing himself while Tim went on high-as-fuck rants, politely having to decline his continuous offers of a couple hits the whole time. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was trying to get him to do something crazy, burn down a barn or some shit together. Since he did know better however, he didn't think it, he knew it, and by time he left, he was groggy from all the secondhand smoke anyways.

What had he done then? He'd picked up a few regular smokes, but otherwise, he hadn't done much besides wander around. Today hadn't been to active, he had no plans going on, no projects that needed finishing. And tomorrow, tomorrow would be the same, he might become bored enough to even visit James and his girlfriend, Maxime, if it hadn't changed again.

It was funny how he still tied himself to people after all the trouble that had come with ties in the past.

And of course, he almost killed that blonde guy, but that was hardly relevant. He began to wonder what kind of a person he was, or had been at least. Was he robbing him out of desperation or out of personal greed? It didn't matter now, odds were he'd bled out. Still, Matt couldn't keep his thoughts off of him, there was a sense of familiarity about his voice, face, his actions. Something he had that made every new idea drift back to him...

The last thing Matt thought before he drifted off was  _I wonder if he really did die anyways._

* * *

The concrete under him was red. The white shirt he'd been wearing was red. His black leather had turned into a deep, deep crimson, not as bright as the other two, but still unmistakably  _red_. Dammit, where had Halle disappeared to anyways?

He felt his body tense as more and more blood drained out of it, soaking the makeshift bandaging through. Maybe he'd be alright with dying. Maybe it wasn't that bad. It was probably a shit ton more relaxing than his life currently was. He heard feet pounding against the cement and a voice calling to him, but he ignored it. Not that he wanted to die, it just seemed like a much simpler option at the moment.

"Mello!"

He opened his eyes weakly. Halle was crouched in front of him, busy wrapping gauze around his stomach to staunch the bleeding.

"Don't you dare fall asleep Mello. We just have to get you back home, and everything is going to be alright, ok? I only left to run off and get this, and already you're dying on me."

Right. Home. And he'd be alright. No, he couldn't die right now, he realized, he had to treat that poor sonovabitch who stabbed him to his own medicine. 

Halle didn't look up while she wrapped him. "I ran a really quick check while you were half asleep, nothing seems to be ruptured. Be glad he stabbed you right in the middle, because he only hit the muscle under your sternum. A few inches to the left, and there goes your spleen. Up another few, bye-bye lungs." She pursed her lips worriedly all the same. "But he twisted so much, I don't know if I can sew this up Mel."

"I'll be fine," he growled. "I just need to... get up.. and walk home," he said, heaving himself to his feet, and Halle grabbed at his arm, making him sit down again. 

"You fucking idiot. Stay here. I'm going to call an ambulance," she said, rushing inside.

Mello's eyes widened in fear. An ambulance, no, no that couldn't happen. He couldn't go to the hospital, that risked someone exposing what had actually happened. He mentally cursed himself for trying to mug that stupid redhead when he'd had a bad feeling about it. His bad feelings were never wrong. And he hadn't even needed money, he was just _bored_. Wanted to pick on someone.

He heard the footsteps coming back again, this time a pair of people. One was a tall, stringy-haired man with a pointed nose and glasses in a long apron, probably the bartender, the other was Halle. he heard her voice explaining what had "happened" to him earlier.

"...and this guy just pops out of nowhere, crazy eyes, wearing a mask and the whole bit, and demands cash. And, uh... right, Mike here, decided to stand up to him, and you can see where that got him. Could you please, please, call help, find something we can patch him up with?"

"Alright, lady, I'll see what I can do for your boyfriend," the guy in the apron says, pushing the glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "For now, just stay here with him and make sure he's alright." Mello heard him mumbling, "I was wondering what those gunshots were," to himself as he disappeared.

Mello watches him disappear before he speaks. "You didn't tell him I was your brother, Halle?" he asks skeptically.

"Boyfriend tends to get more sympathy," she grumbled.

Mello cracked an arrogant smile, despite the fact he was lying in a pool of his own blood. He knew he could trust her to always have his back. Orphans had to look out for each other, after all. 

They sat silently for a few minutes, until finally, the man came back out and told them he'd called the hospital. He had introduced himself as Jack, but Halle was specific to call him Mr. Neylon to see if she could earn any more brownie points. He'd brought out some painkillers ("I don't know how helpful these will be, but it's worth a shot,") and the two of them together took shifts in applying pressure on the bandages.

Mello remained silent throughout the ordeal. He caught himself almost dropping off twice in the ten minutes it took for the ambulance to get there, but in between that, he found himself wondering more and more about what he was going to do to his attacker.

Only when he was on the stretcher did he let himself fall into the quiet, painless abyss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we have Mello! (｀・ω・´)”  
> Short chapter with a lot of explanation, but they'll be getting a lot longer from this point onwards. So stay tuned!  
> (seriously poor matt. poor mello. poor babies. it gets better, I promise)


	12. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **blood |bluhd| noun**   
>  _1\. the fluid that circulates in the principal vascular system of human beings and other vertebrates, in humans consisting of plasma in which the red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets are suspended._   
>  _2\. the vital principle; life:_   
>  _The excitement had got into the very blood of the nation._   
>  _3\. a person or group regarded as a source of energy, vitality, or vigor:_   
>  _It's time we got some new blood in this company._   
>  _5\. bloodshed; gore; slaughter; murder:_

Matt woke up to the smell of blood. He had forgotten his hands were caked in it. Red was sleeping peacefully next to him, his right hand almost licked clean, but the left was stiff, coated in a layer of rust brown. He glanced at the clock, and it was barely past five AM. He'd slept in again.

So he got up, went to the bathroom, washed his hands. Wondered a moment about the small blonde man before brushing him under the rug of his thoughts. He had other ideas for today anyhow. He went into the kitchen and punched in the exact same buttons he did every morning on the coffeemaker, even though he despised the bitterness. Drank it even though he was awake, but today he needed his energy.

He was going to need some bricks, and then he was going to need to call Tim again. 

Red rubbed her face against his ankles, and he reached in to the fridge, pulling out a can of tuna. Tuna was the only thing he had in the fridge besides a half finished six-pack, and it was all for Red.

He _despised_ tuna. 

He stabbed open the can and peeled off the lid. The clatter of metal being dropped on the floor was enough to have Red purring like a lawnmower. Matt snorted and drank. His hands still smelled like blood, but there wasn't much he could do about that. 

Putting the cup in the sink, he drifted back into his room to get dressed, and then back outside, locking the door behind him. He was in a haze as he half-tripped, half-fell down the stairs and out the entrance. Then again, it had been a while since his last brilliant idea.

He trotted past the bus stop a few blocks from home and took a right into a back alley. There he continued in a straight line until he came to a junkyard. There were all kinds of things here, this was where he came for most of his other projects anyways. If there weren't any bricks here, there weren't any bricks in the whole damned city.

 

* * *

 

Mello woke up to the smell of blood. Somehow he was in a hospital bed, an IV hooked in to each of his arms. One of them was filled with a clear substance, the other one with a thick, reddish-black one. He could safely assume the second was in fact blood, but he had no clue what the first one was. And, dear god, it must have still been some unholy hour of the morning, because Halle was fast asleep in the chair, and the window was still dark.

Surprisingly, he'd been given a single room, yet there was no nurse on patrol. He peered down at his stomach, and it had been stitched together messily, a mix of clotting and pus and string. He felt sick just looking at it, but, it was solid enough that when he sat up, nothing oozed out. His chest was bare, and he shivered when the chill of the infirmary snuck under the blankets. He also guessed he wasn't expected to wake up so soon, because he wasn't even really wrapped up properly.

Glancing quickly around the room to locate his shirt, he grabbed it and scrambled to his feet, wobbling slightly, making his way to a platter of tools and gauze. Taking one of the rolls, he wrapped his stomach tightly and pulled his shirt back over his head again despite the rusted colour and smell. Glancing out the window, he guessed it was about a twenty foot drop to the floor, something he would rather go without on his newly and barely healed wounds.

So instead, he shook Halle, her eyes fluttering groggily as she woke slowly. She stared at him for a moment, and would have cried out if he hadn't pressed a hand to her mouth. 

"Sh. Just give me your hoodie," he instructed in a low voice, removing his hand only when she nodded slowly. "Did you tell them my real name?"

"No," she replied quietly, shaking her head as she spoke. She took off the sweater and handed it to him while she explained. "I said you were named Mike Keith. I'm sorry it was so similar to it, but it was the quickest thing I could come up with."

"Good," Mello said. "When they come in for me, pretend you're still asleep. Wake up if they don't already wake you to ask where I went, and after you say you don't know, they should leave. Once that happens, you disappear too, got it? I'll meet you at home." He held the sweater tentatively when she handed it to him, flinching when the elastic dragged a second too long over the bandaging. 

Halle nodded again, and Mello pulled the hood over his hair, slipping out of the door and closing it gently. He froze when two nurses walked by him in the hallway, but they paid no mind to him at all, surprisingly. Their pagers were both beeping urgently, and he assumed they had more important matters to attend to. He inched down the hallway carefully, almost tiptoeing around the corners, until finally he was at the entrance of the building.

And finally, _finally,_ with a last push of the rotating door, he was out, out, out. He started walking slowly, to not draw attention to himself, but once he was out of the direct line of sight of the building, jogging, and finally sprinting, until the shock hit him as the adrenaline faded and he doubled over in pain again. He couldn't stand hospitals. Couldn't stand the plain white and blandness and the polite, black stares everyone used. People were dying, so what? People died every day, and Mello had always treated them exactly the same. It was him who had killed them after all.

But no, today would be different. Today he wouldn't leave home, he'd talk to Rod, make sure they knew he was completely under the radar, that he wasn't a liability anymore, and then he'd rest. They could sort it all out, he'd explain what happened, and he and Halle would be fine. He half limped, half walked again now, the pain blossoming across his chest, towards a shortcut he knew through a back alley. Wait a few weeks after, just to recover properly. Just so he didn't have to worry about being this weak when he next had to confront him.

And then, _then_ he'd get to killing that stupid redhead.

 

* * *

 

 

 _There are no bricks in the whole fucking city_ he thought to himself as he stared angrily at the half brick in his hand. It was the only one he had been able to scrounge up, and he threw it angrily at a wall. It crumbled on impact, the rubble skittering across the asphalt. There was still a large wooden base where there had been literally  _hundreds_ of bricks last week,  _hundreds,_ and he'd been saving them for the next project idea he had, but just as soon as he gets it, some idiot comes along and swipes them. Swipes  _his_ bricks. Probably to pave a garden or something stupid like that.

He steps on a plastic bottle and it crackles loudly beneath his foot before he kicks it down the alley again, ready to go home. Now how was he going to make his stupid fire pit? He thought about alternatives; rocks? No, too irregular. Metal was impractical and clay was expensive, and how would he fire it anyways? Bricks had been the best option, that is until someone had to ruin his fun.

As he rounded the corner and stepped back onto the almost empty street, he bumped shoulders with someone. The collision sent the other person stumbling backwards a few feet; Matt had been stomping so angrily he barely noticed how much force he had used, and in a flurry of movement suddenly he was on the ground too, his hands stinging in pain.

"Hey, watch where you're going dumbass," the guy coughed through what sounded like a nasty cold, his grey-brown hood flying backwards as he shook his head from the fall, and he hesitated for a moment before his blue eyes widened in surprise. Matt felt his own expression waver slightly and he shifted his goggles to his forehead to make sure he wasn't imagining things, but no. The same blue eyes, the same blonde hair, the same snarky, albeit surprised, expression. This was definitely the same guy he'd killed yesterday night.

He was about to stand and offer him a hand when he scrambled backwards across the pavement, huddling a couple feet in the alleyway by the wall of the building behind him. Matt froze, halfway between crouching and standing, and the person glared angrily at him. He couldn't remember what his name had been. He looked angry.

"Stay the fuck away," he hissed. He tried to jump up to run away, but he doubled over the second he stood, coughing heavily again. Small drips of blood spattered on the pavement, and he wiped it from the corner of his mouth, an angry red smear against his pale skin. It seemed as though even just remaining standing was taking too much effort for him, and unsurprisingly he collapsed again against the wall.

"You're bleeding," Matt said, his hand still extended. There was something wrong with how Matt looked though, as if he was a cat who had just found a bird without wings.

"No shit," he replied, and with a sneer, swatted away the hand he was presented with. He pulled Halle's gun from the inside of the hoodie and pointed it weakly at him, eyes cold. "Now fuck off, before I blow you into next week."

Matt sneered back at him, not even flinching. "Bluff," he stated certainly, and the flicker in his expression was all he needed to know he was right. He was crouching only inches away from him, and Mello could feel his hot breath on his face. "Why so hostile, blondie? Or should I call you bloody instead?"

"My name is _Mello,_ idiot." With a snort, he sucked the mess in his mouth into one nasty wad and spat it at him, blood and spit mixed together. It landed square on his chin, and he wiped it off, almost laughing when Mello snarled at him. 

"Charmed," he said. "And my name is Matt." He drew his face closer, and Mello leaned back to try and avoid him, but the wall behind him left no space for evasion.

"You fucking bastard. What do you want from me?" he demanded angrily. His gaze was paralyzing, but he was in too much pain to do much of anything else.

"Well," Matt said simply, "you tried to mug me yesterday."

"And?"

"And I'm going to do whatever I like with you to extract the payment for that," he said, a grin seeping across his face. "It's not exactly like you can fight back right now." Mello's heart sank, because he knew it was true. Still, he kicked out with his legs when he saw Matt reaching for him, one managing to catch him in the chest.

"It's not worth it," he said, pinning his feet down with one hand. The kick hadn't even unsettled him, and even though one arm was clutched to his chest in agony, he lashed out with the other, trying to push Matt away. A car rattled by behind them, the headlights bright in the almost-dark of morning, but otherwise there was no one around who could have helped him. "I don't want to have to knock you out before I move you. It just makes things way more complicated."

"The fuck is wrong with you? _Ge_ _t off,_ " he tried to shout, but it came out as barely a gurgle. Matt laughed again.

"You're not gonna make this easy, are you?" he said, and a shadow crossed his face. He stood back, expression unreadable. Just as Mello thought he might leave he grabbed him on his arm near the shoulder, hoisting him into the air. It felt like his torso was on fire, and the feeling only worsened when Matt pinned him by the neck against the wall.

 _I can't breathe,_ he thought desperately.  _He's going to kill me and I can't do anything about it._ He was slipping, the world almost black now, his lungs begging him to breathe but he just couldn't. And then, just as he's about to slip off, he hears one last distinctive line:

"You tried to hurt me. So naturally, I'm going to do the same."

 


End file.
